


see who falls behind

by charizona



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Featuring, as i myself am a repressed dyke from omaha nebraska, but only enough to make fun of it, dyke ruth manifesto, ruth and i connect on many levels, ruth having not so weird feelings about women?, ruth having weird feelings about clothes, ruth having weird feelings about men, ruth having weird feelings about sex, slight descriptions of ruth having sex with men, some content warnings for comphet on debbie's part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:20:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24064231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charizona/pseuds/charizona
Summary: Debbie’s there with a steady patience and Ruth, Ruth revels in the tolerance.“Do you like him?” Ruth asks, just barely a whisper.Debbie is still here, inches away, and knows exactly who Ruth is talking about. She looks at Ruth, and Ruth hopes to find something hidden behind Debbie’s eyes, but the other thing she’s learned about being friends (or whatever weird thing they are now) is that Debbie hides everything too well.“Yeah,” Debbie says eventually. “I like the way he makes me feel.”Ruth wants to say,that isn’t what I asked, but her brain is too muddled to wrap her head around that.
Relationships: Debbie Eagan/Ruth Wilder
Comments: 6
Kudos: 125





	see who falls behind

**Author's Note:**

> this flips around timeline-wise quite a bit, and some of the pieces are vague about when they're set. there's gonna be a little clarification at the end, but i tried to make it pretty conclusive.
> 
> notable music i listened to while writing this  
> \- lover (the album) by miss swift  
> \- king of the hill by 6host, which literally has a ruth/debbie soundbite in it

Ruth wonders if it’s weird to imagine being the guy. 

Okay, so, the first time it happens is in college, as Ruth sits on top of a washing machine in a boy’s shared college house, and the boy stands between her legs, his fingers pressing tentatively against her.

“You’re so wet,” he says, but Ruth knows he’s lying. Ruth gets immediately sidetracked from the action at hand and finds herself imagining herself as some drunk college boy, slipping a hand up some girl’s skirt and finding her soaking, dripping in a way that really, really has never happened with Ruth.

Or like when she fucks Mark the second time, and they talk a little too much about Debbie beforehand. She sits on top of him and he keeps _talking_ and her hands are on his chest and she’s closing her eyes and suddenly, it’s Debbie beneath her, and Ruth, Ruth has to be the guy in that situation. 

Right?

…

She tries to break up with Russell about a month after they learn about the show’s extension. She’s thinking about the soft way he talks to her, over a faded landline connection traipsing many miles, and how she doesn’t like it. She’s tired of being this soft, small thing that everyone decided at some point to handle with care. (Everyone except Debbie, but Ruth elects to ignore that. For now.)

When Russell doesn’t accept their breakup, Ruth goes to another hotel’s bar to get lost in something, she lets herself think about Sam. Sam, who might finally be the answer to Ruth’s prayers. Not because she likes him, but because settling down with someone as terrible as she is seems like the right thing to do. It’s a very Ruth move, if she thinks so herself, and she catches herself daydreaming during practices about how much she and Sam could help each other. She could help him revise his script, they could be the director/actress couple everyone envies.

Nevermind that she doesn’t like his movies all that much, anyway. 

It’s the principle of the thing. Ruth sips a whiskey and gets droopy in the way that means she needs to start heading back. 

She stumbles back into the Fan-Tan just as Debbie does the same thing, stepping out of a taxi dressed to the nines and Ruth knows, she just _knows_ Debbie has spent the evening with Tex. She wonders who watched Randy, because it certainly wasn’t Ruth, as she blinks at Debbie, who looks almost caught.

“You good?” Debbie asks, as they walk in a few feet away from each other. Almost together. Always almost.

“Absolutely,” Ruth says, and now they’re at the elevator and pretending to be sober is a lot harder when she’s standing still. She wobbles, losing her balance for absolutely no reason at all, and Debbie is there, grabbing her.

“Okay, so you’re not good,” Debbie mutters, holding half of Ruth’s bodyweight.

The elevator doors open and Ruth can’t stop thinking about how pretty Debbie is, how good she smells, how much she wants to—

Even drunk Ruth recognizes that she can’t go there. “I’m fine,” she insists, pulling out of Debbie’s grip and stepping onto the elevator. Debbie gives her a wary glance, and it’s weird, to see Debbie giving her these kind of looks when all Ruth’s gotten used to is anger, fury, hate. So, obviously, Ruth points this out. “What happened with us?” 

“What do you mean, with us,” Debbie responds, pressing the button to their floor.

“You know,” Ruth starts, and she, admittedly, doesn’t know where she’s finishing this. “Just like, before you were all—” Ruth makes her best angry face (and it’s very good), “and now you’re all—” and Ruth widens her eyes, bats her lashes.

“Jesus, _please_ stop making that face,” Debbie laughs, shaking her head. Then, she shrugs. “I guess I forgave you.”

“You hated me when you were alone,” Ruth murmurs. “You hated me because you thought I did that to you, and now you…” She gestures at Debbie’s ensemble. She’s wearing a blazer, buttoned just underneath her diaphragm, and nothing, nothing else underneath it. The smooth expanse of her sternum looks so soft… Ruth just wants to— She blinks. “You have Tex.”

Debbie’s jaw tightens, and Ruth applauds herself for being able to locate Debbie’s fuse and light it on fire every single time. Because anger with Debbie is real. Being on the receiving end of whatever happiness she’s stumbled into feels so foreign to Ruth that she’d rather Debbie just hate her than whatever they’ve become. They’re friends, Ruth’s a babysitter, Debbie’s a girlfriend, and Ruth… Ruth is alone. More alone since she blew up her entire life.

The elevator reaches their floor. Debbie walks out, not bothering to look at Ruth, and says over her shoulder, “See you later, Ruth.”

“Debbie,” Ruth tries, stepping out of the elevator. 

Debbie turns, looks irritated, exasperated, beautiful. “What?”

“I’m sorry, I’m just… Drunk.” Ruth gestures vaguely at the air. She doesn’t know what she’s apologizing for, exactly, other than trying to tell Debbie how alone she feels, or how much she misses her best friend. “It’s weird, right? Us being friends again.”

Debbie shrugs, and at least she’s smiling again when she says, “It’ll stay weird if you keep saying how weird it is.” But then she’s walking back toward Ruth, looping an arm around her, and helping her to her room.

Maybe Debbie tucks her in. All Ruth can think about is Debbie’s hair, perfectly coiffed and adding several inches to her head. She knows, if she were to reach out and touch it, it would crunch underneath her fingertips, doused in the hairspray that Debbie spends half her paycheck on. Debbie unbuttons Ruth’s jeans and helps her slide out of them, catching Ruth when she almost falls face first onto the floor.

She’s there with a steady patience and Ruth, Ruth revels in the tolerance. 

Debbie’s hands are on the back of Ruth’s knees as she lifts Ruth’s legs into the bed, and she’s leaning over Ruth, too close, too close, and Ruth just wants to—

“Do you like him?” Ruth asks, just barely a whisper.

Debbie is still here, inches away, and knows exactly who Ruth is talking about. She looks at Ruth, and Ruth hopes to find something hidden behind Debbie’s eyes, but the other thing she’s learned about being friends (or whatever weird thing they are now) is that Debbie hides everything too well. 

“Yeah,” Debbie says eventually. “I like the way he makes me feel.”

Ruth wants to say, _that isn’t what I asked_ , but her brain is too muddled to wrap her head around that.

It’s only after Debbie leaves that Ruth lets herself really, really think about kissing her.

…

It’s late, they’ve been practicing literally all day, but Debbie can’t get the move right. It’s the timing, it’s the exhaustion, it’s all getting to the both of them and truthfully? Ruth wants to go back to the motel and take a bath. She’s pretty sure her body is going to ache for months after this, just because Debbie can’t seem to get the timing down on something that is simple.

“We should just call it,” Ruth says, sitting flat on her ass on the canvas. Debbie walks through it while Ruth watches, having elected to sit this round out. 

“I’m gonna get it,” Debbie argues, going from one corner to the other, acting out the moves on air.

Ruth has always been the one who overworks, tries too hard, and Debbie has always been the one who skips out early, gets everything without putting the work in. It’s an odd reversal, but an easy one, for Ruth, who has these moves down to a tee. It’s Debbie who needs to catch up, for once, and no matter how bored Ruth really is right now, she watches Debbie be three steps behind her because she doesn’t know when it’ll ever happen again.

So they run through it three more times. The first time, Debbie trips after the second move and they don’t even get to practice the whole thing because she waves her hands, squints her eyes closed, and says, “Nope. We’re starting over,” and Ruth wonders if somewhere, there is film evidence of Debbie fucking up a line on _Paradise Cove_ or if Ruth’s the only one who has seen her mess up this much.

They get it, the third time. And of course, Debbie wants to do it again, get it perfect again.

This time, Ruth fucks up the timing, and Debbie whirls on her, completely missing the clothesline, and says, “Are you _fucking_ kidding me?”

Ruth flinches. She doesn’t point out that she’s gotten it right every time before this. Instead, she doesn’t meet Debbie’s eyes, which means for a brief second, her eyes are on Debbie’s tits, and _well_ , that doesn’t—

“We were so fucking close,” Debbie mutters, before setting up to go again.

“We have it,” Ruth tries, half leaning half cowering on the ropes opposite Debbie. “We should just—”

“Fine. Whatever.” And then Debbie’s slipping between the ropes and stalking back to the locker room.

It’s later, after Ruth has sat in the bath for about an hour, when Sheila kicks her out, so Ruth goes and sits by the pool and wraps a thrifted cardigan around her shoulders, when she sees Debbie again. She’s just a silhouette in the parking lot, pacing madly with the red hot tip of a cigarette glowing in the darkness.

Ruth watches the hard set of Debbie’s shoulders, leaning back in her chair. After it’s been a few minutes and Debbie finishes her cigarette, she starts the tedious walk across the parking lot and back to her room. She sees Ruth, watches Ruth watch her, and stops next to the pool. 

She glances at her own room, internally debating something, before she says, “Do you just enjoy sleeping out here or something?”

Ruth pushes herself upright. “Sheila likes to be alone every once in a while.”

Debbie nods, like that was the answer she’d been expecting. “Okay,” she says, before starting to walk again. After a few steps, she stops. “You can… crash in my room. If you’re not too busy being weird out here.”

Ruth shakes her head. She’s not too busy, but she also doesn’t know if she wants to be in a small, contained room with Debbie after the day they both had.

“I’m not going to bite,” Debbie adds, and Ruth swears that Debbie reads her mind sometimes. It’s the piece of friendship that always worked for them, understanding what the other was going through despite the fact that they were both very, very wrong.

They’re wrong on a lot of levels, if Ruth really thinks about it.

The thing is, she doesn’t want to go to Debbie’s room. She doesn’t want to be berated, or ridiculed, or whatever else Debbie wants to get off her chest. But Debbie wants her to, and if Debbie wants her to… Ruth stands up, offers Debbie a close-lipped smile, and says, “I wasn’t being weird.”

“Yeah, well, you were watching me like a creep, so,” Debbie says, leading the way.

Debbie opens the door and as Ruth crosses the threshold, she wonders what it would be like to be some guy Debbie found at a bar, what it would be like to drive back, half tipsy, with Debbie’s hand working between her legs. What it would be like to have Debbie close the door, lean against it, and be the person she lets ravish her, grind hips against hips.

It would be… overwhelming, she thinks. Besides, Ruth isn’t a guy.

She’s just Ruth.

...

Ruth fucks Mark to take something from Debbie. 

To take _what_ , Ruth doesn’t exactly know. She spends the party that Debbie last minute invited her to glued to Debbie’s side, watching as Debbie entertains man after man. Executive after agent after actor after executive.

Between suitors, Debbie explains to Ruth the importance of sucking up, the difference between a working actress and an aspiring one, and Ruth can’t even be angry with Debbie’s tone deafness because she’s two glasses of wine in and can’t stop looking at Debbie’s lips. 

“What, is my lipstick fucked up?” Debbie even asks at some point, and Ruth is quick to tell her no, she’s just tipsy and can’t focus. Which is, very much untrue, seeing as all Ruth _can_ focus on is Debbie. 

She doesn’t explain to Debbie how bringing Ruth as her plus one to a networking event is at best, a mockery of their friendship bordering on partnership, seeing as Ruth is going to get nothing out of this despite trying, and at worst, a betrayal of her marriage. Her literal marriage that Debbie chooses to ignore in favor of tugging on some man’s lapel and smiling in that fake, plastic way she does.

Ruth admires the work Debbie puts in, honestly, but her admiration borders on envy because Ruth just _can’t_. She talks and words come out, but they’re more often the wrong words or the words that make people brush her off as weirdly extroverted.

And then Mark makes a surprise appearance and even he can’t tear her away from network executives. He and Ruth stand at the edge of the room, talking about Debbie as if they’ve both loved and lost, and then he’s looking at Ruth in that way Ruth knows he needs someone right now. She thinks she might need to be someone’s someone right now, too.

_Real people deserve things, too_. 

If she thinks about kissing Debbie instead of what she’s actually doing (which is kissing Debbie’s _husband_ ), Ruth tells herself it’s because Debbie is a fabrication of a person. Ruth doesn’t want Debbie, she wants what Debbie has. The life, the looks, the husband, the kid. Ruth wants to be important and useful, and she wants some sort of confirmation she’s doing this whole life thing correctly. Because it really, really feels like she’s failing most of the time.

Thinking about kissing Debbie means as little as dreaming about murder; just a subconscious beckoning of the life Ruth should want for herself, nothing more.

Except the deep, overwhelming wetness she finds between her legs hours after leaving Mark and thinking only about Debbie does everything except prove her point.

…

Ruth’s never been good at… dressing herself. 

Jeans almost all the time because jeans are comfortable, practical, and they have the added benefit of forcing people to take her seriously. Ruth wears skirts strategically, but not nearly as much as Debbie uses her own makeup and style as a weapon. Ruth’s not great with these kinds of weapons, though, not like Debbie is. When she does her own makeup, it looks shaky and inexperienced at best, absolutely demonic at worst.

With Zoya, Ruth is determined to take back some sort of control over femininity, and she spends hours wasting sparkly glitter eyeshadow in front of the mirror. She asks Sheila about contouring and learns what it’s like to actually look at her face and not— hate it, she guesses.

She truly just doesn’t like attention when she’s not demanding it. She loved stalking across the stage in theater school, capturing a crowd (all eyes on her!), and she loves being Zoya, hanging off the energy of a crowd that buzzes with hatred and delight. Because when Ruth is Zoya, or any other character, she is _entertaining_. 

When she’s just Ruth… she likes to blend in. She dresses for comfort. She wears jeans and tees because she learns pretty early in life that she doesn’t like the way men see her dressed up and think it’s for _them_.

She pretends she doesn’t notice the way Sam looks at her when she’s dressed up. In character, out of it. He doesn’t really look at her that way when she’s just Ruth, in her faded jeans and sneakers, and _that_ ’ _s_ when she feels the most at ease with him.

But when she steps out of Sam’s room and sees Debbie… Fucking gorgeous Debbie in her deep blue gown, Debbie who always looks perfect and poised (and even when she doesn’t, still, somehow, does), she feels a sense of embarrassment both for stepping out of Sam’s room and for trying to pretend like she’s going to be anything standing next to a woman like that.

And if her cheeks burn, she doesn’t think about it. And if her stomach flips, she doesn’t think about it.

(She wonders if men take the time to appreciate Debbie when she’s not a carefully crafted projection.)

Ruth blinks, situated between Sam and Debbie in a small, too small, elevator, and thinks about how if she were some guy, how waking up with Debbie next to her, all bare-face and puffy eyes and soft, lightly pinked skin… how she would feel not like she won something, but like she’s the luckiest guy in the world.

…

Russell is soft. Soft hands, kisses, thrusts. Too soft.

Mark is harder when he’s drunk, but he isn’t drunk the second time they have sex, so he kisses her very, very softly. Ruth’s first thought is, _he doesn’t kiss Debbie like this_. She asks him, he tells her that Debbie likes it harder, rougher, and Ruth can’t help but think it’s because Debbie needs that to feel something.

Maybe in the same way Ruth needs that to feel something. Ruth doesn’t tell Mark (or Russell) (or Sam) that she doesn’t like soft, she doesn’t like gentle. She doesn’t tell him because she knows Mark is using her, albeit in a different way than she is using him. And honestly, it feels so fucking good to be wanted when he could have… Debbie, of all people. It lights a fire deep in Ruth’s gut and she lets Mark go slow, even as she screws her eyes shut and imagines herself as a taller, blonder, bustier woman.

Except—

No, she’s not pretending she’s Debbie at all. She’s pretending she’s Mark and Ruth is Debbie and they’re going very hard and very fast and with her eyes closed, Ruth can pretend the pressure inside of her is Debbie’s fingers, the hands at her hips are Debbie’s hands, and--

“Fuck,” she breathes, and Mark repeats it, completely ruining the whole Ruth-fucking-Debbie illusion.

Ruth pulls away, feeling sick. For so, so many reasons. Too many reasons to explain to Mark, who asks if she finished and she nods her head.

She doesn’t take the time to unpack her thoughts. All she knows is she can’t tell some random guy to take her like she so desperately wants to be taken. For some weird, wicked reason, she thinks about asking Debbie to do it. She imagines walking right up to Debbie in the ring, imagines Debbie twisting inside of her, pulling a breathless gasp from her chest.

Out of everyone Ruth regularly interacts with, Debbie could be most likely to kill her.

Maybe Ruth wants her to? She doesn’t know. She deserves it, that’s for sure. She feels— she wants— Well. 

She needs Debbie to destroy her.

…

Ruth is too early to an audition. So early, in fact, that there are people here reading for an entirely different part. Ruth’s here for the lead female character, a woman called _Donna_ who cheats on her husband, spurring the male lead to spiral out of control and wonder what direction his life is going in. All of these women are here for the kind, sweet neighbor who rubs the male lead’s arm and assures him that everything will be okay. The part Ruth’s going for requires an explosiveness that Ruth didn’t have a year ago, but she’s been working on it in acting class.

She sits at the edge of the room, counting the amount of brunettes and blondes and hey, one redhead. If she were the casting director, she would rule out the woman by the door immediately. And the woman who walks out of the casting office with a clumsy, upset stride, too. She’s wearing something too revealing— definitely not the woman who sweeps in and saves the day.

A tall blonde walks in, a light sheen of sweat on her forehead, and Ruth’s first thought is _her_. Is that what casting directors feel when they find the right actor for a role? Instinctive, immediate, instantaneous?

Of course, the only open seat is next to Ruth. She scoots a little bit to the side to make room, trying to glance without staring, as the blonde pulls her purse into her lap and starts digging through it. She murmurs, “Fuck me,” as her digging turns more frantic.

When people talk about how they met their best friend, they usually start at a point of contention, or they have a friend-iversary, or they remember the exact words that were said. To say that Ruth feels an immediate connection? attraction? bond? whatever it is… she doesn’t.

Ruth gets caught staring, however, when the blonde turns to her, completely unexpectedly. She turns her head to the front, but it was so, so obvious.

(She’s thinking about why women like this got roles over women like her. The blonde has an energy around her that radiates _I don’t give a fuck_ and Ruth has a hard time admitting that she wants that kind of energy, too.)

“You really don’t have to, but I forgot the sides,” the woman says to Ruth, voice low so as not to attract attention. “Do you have a copy?”

“Oh, um,” Ruth says, remembering why she’s here and realizing that she doesn’t have sides for the role the woman wants. “I’m actually here for the next one, so I don’t.”

“I figured. Me, too.” Blondie gives Ruth a smile, somehow both condescending and dazzling at the same time. “I’m Debbie.” She offers Ruth a hand, and Ruth takes it.

The truth is, Ruth never goes to a casting session without at least three copies of her sides. Usually more, but at least three. One to practice with, one tucked into her bag in case something happens to the first, and a third, folded neatly in her pocket.

She nods, going for the one in her purse, and hands it to Debbie. “Ruth.”

They’re called one right after the other, and when Ruth emerges, already running her audition through her head and checking off her mistakes, she’s surprised to find Debbie standing outside, smoking a cigarette. Waiting for her. “I’ll take you to dinner,” Debbie says. “As thanks. Fuck knows I owe it to you.”

So they go to dinner.

(And a week later, Debbie gets the part.)

…

“I don’t know. He’s— _Jesus_ , I feel like we’re in high school.”

It’s the night of show one-hundred-eight-five, and Debbie’s sitting on Ruth’s second bed, leaning back against the headboard. 

Ruth silently agrees, because it _does_ feel like high school, except for the fact that Ruth didn’t have friends like Debbie back then, didn’t sit on the floor and talk about boys with them. She’d really wanted to, back then, but now? She wishes she didn’t have to listen to… Well, to Debbie. talking about—

And yet, she asks. “No, no, come on,” Ruth urges, placing a delicate smile on her face. She’ll do anything to keep Debbie like this, uncensored and willing to talk about anything. “I want to hear about it, really.”

“Yeah, ‘cause my love life’s so interesting,” Debbie responds, but she’s looking at Ruth in that way she does when she’s excited, when she’s holding back. 

It’s the way she _used_ to look at Ruth, and Ruth wants to grab onto that look and never, ever let go.

“Okay!” Debbie dives into it, tells Ruth all about Tex’s charm, Tex’s family, Tex’s job. It’s Tex, Tex, Tex, and Debbie, admittedly, lands on the fact that Tex isn’t even his _name_ almost thirty minutes into the conversation.

And Ruth loves Debbie like this. She feels needed in a way she hasn’t felt needed in a long time. She thinks about Sam, about the way he’d glanced at her lips and wanted her, needed her, and she’d been so ready to give herself to him, just so he’d feel better. And she thinks about Debbie, who so desperately wants to talk about Tex and Randy and anything Ruth will listen to. Lucky for her, Ruth would rather be on this side of the fence than the other.

Now would, perhaps, be the perfect time to tell Debbie about Russell. Or Sam. Or both, honestly, but then she thinks about this smile on Debbie’s face and how much she’d rather just tell Debbie about _Debbie_ , how much she’d rather--

Ruth blinks as Debbie pauses, inhales before she dives into another sentence, watching the pink, soft curve of Debbie’s lips.

And Ruth thinks _fuck_.

…

Debbie likes to pretend that they’re making their way back to the way things used to be. She’s “forgiven” Ruth, she’s found someone new to focus on, and now, things are good. Right? Right, Ruth? 

Ruth wants to tell Debbie that things will always be different now. She’s back after… well, after telling Sam she loves him (or _thinks_ she loves him) and god, what a complete fucking disaster. She wants to tell Debbie all about it, so she does, and Debbie leans in like it’s the hottest piece of fucking gossip and Ruth just wants to grab her! It’s you, you idiot! I want you! I always have!

But Debbie isn’t there. She just wants to _know_ , once again, the disaster that is Ruth’s life.

Where before Ruth fucked Mark, she would’ve cried in Debbie’s arms and gotten wine drunk and ended up asleep on the floor, Ruth holds back her tears at Debbie’s fucking stupidity and goes back to her room.

She sits on the edge of the bed. She doesn’t cry. She thinks about the end of the show. She thinks about the next thing, like she always has.

Ruth sleeps alone that night. She doesn’t think about Debbie.

…

There is one time where Ruth doesn’t have to _imagine_ being the guy.

It’s when Debbie is still so furious with her that she can hardly look at her. It’s before Debbie gets coke high and breaks Ruth’s leg. It’s when Ruth would do fucking _anything_ to have her best friend back.

If this hadn’t happened, would Ruth still not be able to fully fall for Russell? Would she have ended up in bed with Sam so much sooner, not fixated on the blonde bombshell that kissed her that night?

Well. More than kissed her.

Ruth is in Debbie’s adjacent bed, the room is dark, and she can’t sleep. She’d be sleeping better, she thinks, if she were still out on the pool chair in the cool night air. Maybe colder, yeah, but asleep. Instead of listening intently to Debbie’s breathing, trying to decide whether or not Debbie’s awake.

“Okay,” Debbie says, breaking the silence. She twists in her bed (Ruth can hear the sheets move). “You weren’t being weird outside, but you’re definitely being weird right now.”

Ruth presses her lips together. “I can’t sleep.”

“Your thoughts are so incredibly loud,” Debbie mutters, annoyed.

“That’s funny,” Ruth fires back, “because I’m not really thinking about anything.” It’s only kind of a lie. She’d been thinking about Debbie, as she does most of the time these days. “Do you think you’re ever going to forgive me?”

A sharp intake of breath. They haven’t talked about this even remotely. It feels safer, somehow, like this. Like they’re teenagers having a sleepover, whispering things that don’t mean anything to each other. 

“You make me so…” Debbie doesn’t finish. She might wave her hands around, above her head, but Ruth can’t see her.

Ruth doesn’t say anything else. She still isn’t saying anything when Debbie makes some noise, maybe gets off the bed? Ruth doesn’t know until she realizes Debbie is standing next to the bed and looking down at her. Ruth pushes herself up on her elbows.

“Are you okay?” she asks, though she knows the answer.

“Can I just…” Debbie motions to the bed.

Ruth moves over. It’s a small bed, so Debbie’s knees knock into her as she climbs in, lying next to Ruth. Now, Ruth thinks she’s never going to sleep.

“I never did this,” Debbie says, quiet. “When I was a kid. I never really had close girlfriends or whatever.”

“Me either,” Ruth says. 

And then Debbie’s turning, facing Ruth. Ruth stares at the ceiling, not daring to move. She imagines herself a wildlife photographer, too close to something predatory and looming. If she moves, Debbie might just storm off and…

Debbie’s hand is on Ruth’s chin. Her finger so close to Ruth’s bottom lip. Her thumb moves, rubs against Ruth’s lip, and Ruth’s entire body is on fire. She wants to run, she wants face Sheila’s wrath at returning to the room early, because tenderness? With Debbie? Well, that’s not—

It isn’t. Because then Debbie turns Ruth’s head and kisses her. Kisses her. Presses her lips against… Ruth’s lips.

It takes a moment for Ruth’s brain to catch up, and _jesus_ , this is what those guys feel like? This is what _Mark_ had and threw away?

Ruth’s not kissing back, and she doesn’t realize she’s not kissing back until Debbie is pulling away, saying, “Jesus _fucking_ christ,” and then she’s climbing out of the bed and _move_ , Ruth, just fucking move.

She grabs Debbie’s wrist, half hauls herself out of the bed, and then Debbie is turning and Ruth is kissing her and pressing her lips to Debbie’s throat, and Debbie smells like— like cigarettes and those perfume stands at the mall. Debbie’s breath catches as Ruth’s lips find her collarbone, and Ruth doesn’t know what to do with her hands, where she should—

Debbie’s pushing her back. Debbie’s kneeling on this bed and holding onto Ruth’s shoulders and finally, Ruth puts her hands on Debbie’s waist because it’s the closest thing she’s got. 

Is this forgiveness? Ruth doesn’t know. What she _does_ know is that she wants Debbie to feel good, she wants Debbie to take whatever she wants from her because Ruth is willing to _give_.

“Ruth,” Debbie says, and then laughs, for some reason, and she’s pulling on Ruth’s head, pushing her back a bit.

Ruth stops kissing Debbie’s chest. Looks at her in the dark. She can just barely make out Debbie’s face, which looks decidedly baffled, and yeah, Ruth probably looks a bit baffled herself.

“What?” Ruth says, but it comes out more like a gasp.

Bafflement turns to stone. Turns out, looking at Ruth still makes Debbie irrevocably angry. Ruth sees Debbie make the decision to leave and god, Ruth really needs her to stay. She needs Debbie to stay, needs to see what this kind of forgiveness feels like, so Ruth does the only thing she can think to do.

One hand on Debbie’s waist is under Debbie’s slip in seconds, pushing between Debbie’s legs and into extremely unfamiliar territory for Ruth, but it’s gotta be just like when she touches herself, right? Debbie stares at her, hard, doesn’t move away, and Ruth just… Has her hand there. It’s not sexy, it’s not… anything.

Light from the parking lot catches Debbie’s face as a streetlamp flickers. It’s a stalemate, two cowboys with their guns out and pointed, a trigger that could be pulled at any second.

Ruth pulls hers first, moving her fingers against Debbie’s clit and then dipping lower, pressing into her best friend, and wondering, do all sleepovers end like this? Maybe that’s why Ruth never had any. Debbie doesn’t kiss her again, and that’s fine, because she buries her face into the space between Ruth’s shoulder and neck, breathes hard and rocks against Ruth’s hand as Ruth pushes one finger, then two into her, curling them and hitting against Debbie just right.

Debbie’s hands are in Ruth’s hair, and Ruth’s teeth are against Debbie’s ear, and the small sounds Debbie makes are getting quicker, more frequent, and Ruth can feel that she’s doing something right now, so she keeps doing it. She thinks about grabbing Debbie’s breasts, her ass, all of it, because she _wants to_ , which is, frankly, a startling realization, but she doesn’t. 

She does what she can, and Debbie comes wet against her hand, her lips against Ruth’s throat, and she bites back the moan that bubbles up.

Ruth realizes, standing outside of Debbie’s motel room with a sheen of sweat across her brow, this is not forgiveness.

She brings her hand up to her mouth, sticks her tongue out to taste them before she thinks better of it, wiping them violently against her pajama pants.

Ruth walks back to her room. Thinks about breaking the sock rule. Ends up on the pool chair once again, her hand finally dry but still… still smelling like. Her.

It’s not forgiveness in the slightest. Just submission.

...

Ruth thinks about that night in the motel as Debbie stares at her hard, a plane for Denver behind her back and the woman she’s probably sure she’s in love with in front of her. Ruth doesn’t know what she wants, but she knows she can’t bear to hear Debbie say she can’t act again. An eden sounds nice, but a fucking role is all Ruth wants.

Something real. Something more than a sweaty night in a motel room and a best friend who refuses to acknowledge that this is more, has always been more.

Debbie asks her to stay, needs Ruth to stay because while Ruth is alone, so is Debbie, for perhaps the first time in her life. Ruth understands that feeling. Knows that Debbie’s scared, grasping at the closest thing she has.

She’s tired of playing the role of Debbie’s hype-guy. She wants a chance, her chance, to do what she wants to do. What she’s dreamed of doing her entire life.

Ruth knows that Debbie wouldn’t run across an airport for just anybody. Certainly not for some guy. For the first time in her life, Ruth doesn’t have to wonder what it feels like for Debbie to want her.

So she walks away. She needs to, if she’s being honest. 

She’ll come back to Los Angeles, because what is there if not more auditions? Maybe she’ll even talk to Debbie again, but right here, right now, she wants Debbie to kiss her, she wants Debbie to give her _everything_ , not just what Debbie wants to offer right now. When she left home, she used to think going back to Nebraska meant she would've given up, would never be able to come back.

She’ll come back. It’s a promise to herself. 

She tells Debbie the truth: that she knows Ruth better than anyone. Better than Ruth knows herself.

She pretends she doesn’t hear Debbie’s small, “Don’t,” because acknowledging it would be bending, breaking, and Ruth’s got a long flight to Denver ahead of her. She doesn’t need to spend it thinking about whatever this is.

She leaves. She does a crossword, sleeps, gets annoyed when her ears are still stuffy in Denver, and then she’s watching the plane cross over the Missouri River at Eppley Airfield, and she smiles.

It’s winter in Omaha, and Ruth is going home.

**Author's Note:**

> the sex is set during s1. most of the rest, as noted through context, is s3. 
> 
> comments are very tasty.
> 
> still thinking about how these two are going to find their way back to each other in s4, so look out for that in the future. @butchdyke69 on tumblr. @theweedyke on twitter.


End file.
